Shepherd

FIVE

The I-25 opened up before him under a dome of blue and wispy white clouds. The dusty orange fields on either side of him looked barren and bleak as he hit a steady 50mph with the other rigs trailing along behind him. The cloud of dust they kicked up hid Denver from his rear cameras almost as soon as they'd left the city limits, heading towards Cheyenne. Only the convoy existed behind him now. The past was being eaten up, vanishing with the last two wheels of the Texan who brought up the rear.

Shepherd tried not to think about the empty road ahead of him and the congested one to his left. Stacked hood to trunk were thousands of civilian vehicles; cars, vans, SUVs, anything on wheels that could carry luggage and children and frightened parents. The traffic wasn't really traffic – it was one long parking lot, stretching as far as the horizon allowed, all pointing straight at Denver.

There was no one ahead of him. There wasn't even a glimmer of paint or chrome. No one was trying that hard to leave, to follow them or even see what they were doing. Those sat on the far side stared as the enormous trucks thundered past, some pointed and gawped, others shook their heads. They knew what he and the others were carrying, it was too fucking obvious not to. But why they were carrying their deadly payload out of the city, they couldn't even begin to guess. Neither could he, he realized.

It wasn't long before they passed the Speedway and the golf course, the small airpark (now deserted) and saw the towering fires rising from Fort Collins and the University. The lines of cars still tailed along, some shuffling forward occasionally, others with their hoods open, letting off the steam of the overheated engine. Children kicked soccer balls around. Some sat on the roofs and played with toys. Dads chatted with each other and Moms took turns nursing little ones. It was a traveling community and one that seemed oblivious to the carnage nearby. It was like the road was a safe place, an asphalt belt of neutral territory for the wandering and the lost.

"It's like the country is emptying itself into Denver," said the Texan in her drawl over the radio.

"What do they think is waiting for them?" asked Foley. "Fuck-wits."

"Some fine pussy in there," said Mitchell.

"Shut your hole," added Frannie.

Shepherd turned the volume down and sat back in his chair, letting out a long sigh. He tried not to look to his left again but it was hard not to. Anything was better than the endless brown dirt that mounted up in the center of the road or the untended fields on his right.

Every time he looked he saw Nat at the wheel of a Volvo or sat astride a motorcycle. He saw her nursing a baby or boiling a kettle on a gas stove. She was everywhere and nowhere. She was in his cab, she was in his bunk, bent over double to peer into the lower shelf of the fridge revealing the curve of her behind in tight denim. She was soaked into his being and even more so now that she was in danger – because of him. Even though he tried not to think about her, there she was, forcing herself into his waking dreams.

He saw a particular bike parked by the roadside and immediately he was drawn to that long, hot summer night two years after she'd fixed him up, stitching herself into his flesh in a hospital ward. She'd had one weekend to herself in almost twelve months of hard work just as things were starting to fall apart. Shepherd had suggested a road trip and, reluctantly, Nat had agreed. But when he'd pulled up outside A & E on a Pan European with a spare lid on his arm, she'd squealed with delight and almost leaped onto the pillion.

The bike along the roadside was gone in a moment but it was the same shade of crimson and he fancied there'd even been the same battered panniers on either side.

They drove on and Cheyenne came into sight just as he felt he'd settled into the drive. He knew the others would want to stop and it was likely that the truck wash and diner was going to be one of the few safe places to do so on their journey. As they reached the intersection, the traffic parted for the convoy and waited until all the rigs had filled the dust bowl of a car park and shut off their engines before carrying on to join the others on the I-25 south. Shepherd watched them from the cab, turning one of the driver's side cameras to see better.

"You coming inside?" asked Foley from his rig.

"Nah," he replied. "I'm good."

"We're gonna get some chow, talk it all over. Sure I can't tempt you?"

"I'm sure."

"Suit yourself."

He watched them all clamber down from their trucks and gather near his before heading inside. Even the tall man from Utah and his friend followed them in. Shepherd, deciding he had enough people in his life, had never much relished the kinds of trucker who longed for people's company. He'd always known the life to be solitary, to be about him and his rig and he'd been glad when he'd done his first run and found diners filled with people who just wanted to be left alone. Only Natalie had been allowed in. She was the only one with permission to open his heart and no one else had the key.

The ride from her hospital had taken a few hours and when they arrived at the motel just off the freeway they were both stiff-legged and saddle sore.

"It's a long ride from here. We'll tackle it tomorrow," he said, taking off his helmet with a groan. His hair was stuck up in all directions and he ran his hands through it before holding the bike steady between his thighs as Nat climbed off the pillion. She stretched and twisted out the miles and pulled her own lid off, shaking out her hair.

"I could do with a shower and a drink," she sighed.

"I'll book us in."

They went over to the desk; a tired looking thing made of cheap imitation pine, where a grizzled old woman stared at them from over the top of her thick horn-rimmed lenses.

"Room 12," she managed to bark before he'd had a chance to speak. "You break it, you pay for it. Fifty bucks for the night. The world's ending, you know? Rates just went up."

Shepherd said nothing but went back outside and wheeled his bike over to the empty parking space outside room 12. Then, setting it back on its stand, he grabbed his bag and she took hers.

Inside the place was quite nice. The sheets were fresh, the windows were open and there wasn't that usual dirty, seedy feeling he got in places like that. It was an almost pleasant room with oak paneled walls, a reasonable carpet underfoot with only one balding patch and a wide, king-sized bed with flowered sheets.

"Nice," said Nat. Then, throwing down her bag, she sat on the edge of the bed and held up a boot for him to tug at. "There's no way these are coming off by themselves, honey."

He helped her out of them and threw them into the corner near the lamp. She lay back on the bed, star-fished, and shut her eyes.

"I'm grabbing a shower," was all he said before he took off his jacket and headed for the bathroom.

Under the hot spray he let the tension run out of his back and shoulders. It'd been a busy year and there he was, finally, spending a much anticipated weekend with-

"Room for two?" said a voice from the other side of the curtain. A delicate hand pulled it aside and there, naked and pale, was Nat with a wry grin on her face. He moved over and she climbed into the stall, letting the jet soak her hair and send rivulets of water down her spine. She swept it from her face, opened her eyes and smiled the sweetest smile he'd ever known.

"I've waited so long for this," she whispered as her fingers touched the scar tissue on his shoulder. He felt a shiver of delight run down his back and settle in his stomach. Stress had been replaced with butterflies.

Their lips met and the hot water splashed over both of them. His hands crept around her waist, felt the curve of her back with calloused fingertips and with the firm pressure he knew she liked, he pressed the small of her back towards him.

"So much fucking yes!" she groaned. "I love you, Shep."

"I love you too, Nat. More than you could possibly know."

Shepherd saw them leave the diner about an hour later. They were laughing and joking and they had coffee cups in their hands as they made their way back to their rigs. He started the engine, let out a sigh and began to roll out, just as the weapons cabinet chimed to tell him it'd been released.

The preamble was over. The deadly journey to Canada had begun.